


Oracle

by HopeofDawn



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Angst, Dark, Estet - Freeform, Gen, Pre-Canon, Precognition, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a past. And even the all-knowing leader of Schwarz was a tool for Estet...once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oracle

He was the fourth Oracle to be brought to the White Wing. His room had a bed, a table, and a chair. Two blankets, one pillow. One door. One window that looked out onto nothing in particular. Four smudgy white walls.

He had no name. He had no family. He was six years old--and he was the most powerful Oracle Estet had ever found.

He was fed three times a day; allowed to use the bathroom once every four hours. He had a complete medical exam every six months, and was escorted into the private courtyard for four hours each day if the weather allowed--the gym if it did not. There he exercised as he was told: running, jumping, tumbling. He was never told to play. He did gymnastics, calisthenics, swam or ran laps; as he grew older, was allowed to play handball or basketball. He was taught meditation techniques: harsh lessons in concentration and focus, how to extend the mind and ignore the body. Nothing was taught that would allow him to surprise his keepers. Nothing that could make him dangerous.

He read literature, learned languages, math and history, logic and science. Newspapers were not allowed. Television and radios were banned. Estet wanted nothing that might taint the accuracy of an Oracle's visions.

He learned his lessons well--all of them.

Only the highest ranking telepaths were allowed access to the Oracles, but their access was complete. Privacy, for an Oracle, was an illusion; permission, never necessary. At any time, any place, a telepath could stop to seize his mind and force him to See things he never wanted to See. He struggled against it at first. Eventually he learned to stop fighting, to let them peel away his thoughts, use his talent, entertain themselves with his childish dreams and secrets...and other things. A bored telepath's idea of entertainment was broad, and Estet did not care what they did as long as their Oracle was not permanently damaged.

He was watched. They all were, monitored every minute of their lives by cameras, microphones, and guards, there to keep the Oracles in and the world out. Estet had learned their lessons early; no chance was given for an Oracle to commit suicide. All Oracles wore white: slippers, trousers, and shirt. A jacket in wintertime. White for purity, for power, for death--the Elders liked symbolism. They also liked flimsy white clothing that made for easy identification should one of their prizes ever decide to escape. Not that any Oracle had ever tried. What was the point, when you had Seen you would not succeed? A few lucky individuals managed to escape into insanity; after that, telepathic observers were installed in the Wing. Kennel duty, they called it.

 

 

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When he was eight, he decided he wanted a name. He searched through his books, his histories. Searched through dictionaries and etymologies. His eventual choice was perfect--ordinary, perhaps, but rich in history and full of meaning...and his. Not the name of a thing, but the name of a person. The next telepath who came to use him--to See whether a planned corporate assassination would prove useful--found his new name amusing, and allowed him to keep it.

The one after that did not.

He chose another name. They took it, and the three names he chose after that, leaving only the memory of his attempts behind. He eventually stopped trying.

 

 

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After that, he occupied himself as most Oracles did. Withdrawing from the present, he walked the myriad paths of his future, looking for the one path that could lead him out of the White Wing. Following the convoluted web of the choices Estet would make, could make, was making; when they revealed nothing, he pushed farther, Seeing months ahead instead of weeks, years ahead instead of months, Seeing himself grow older, more powerful and more helpless, and Seeing ahead, always Seeing. His watchers knew what he was doing, of course. It was nothing new. The more malicious mocked his attempts, and placed bets on how long he would keep looking for something that did not exist.

Then, when he was nine, an Oracle died...and the future changed.

He did not know her. None of the Oracles had ever met, had only Seen each other in the future. She had been aging, but far from old; a telepath had pushed her too far, trying to See too much at once, and her mind broke under the strain. She suffered an aneurysm, and while medical attention was immediate, the damage had already been done. After four hours of deep probes, Estet's best telepaths gave their verdict: brain dead.

Life support was terminated immediately.

The offending telepath was powerful, both in ability and Talent; a ruthless field leader with an unbroken record for successful missions. It did not save him. He was crucified and burned alive in the main courtyard of Rosenkreuz, his mind held in the iron grip of a fellow telepath; falling unconscious in the flames was a mercy Estet did not intend to allow. He took the better part of an hour to finally die, his mind screaming long after his voice failed.

Afterwards, the smell of ash and burnt flesh lingered as far as the White Wing for weeks. It proved to be a potent reminder. For a time the Oracles went untouched, except by the Elders themselves. But the fear could not last forever, and the telepaths came creeping back, one by one, unable to resist the forbidden allure of the future.

He barely noticed the brief respite, for with the other Oracle's death, the future had changed. Anyone else would not have Seen it at all; elusive and undefined, the change hovered at the very limits of his ability, twisting formerly straight pathways of Estet domination into new forms. Try as he might, however, the catalyst eluded him--like a black hole, the change could be Seen only by the futures that were altered by it.

The discovery remained his for only moments.

Once revealed, it shook loose the complacency of the guarding minds of the White Wing. Their response was both swift and brutal--both quarantined and double guarded, his mind was scoured raw as they tried to determine if this change posed a threat or opportunity. Even so, they left empty-handed, bound by the same limits of his Talent. Their attempts to use the other, less powerful Oracles gave them even less; none of them could even See the change.

Left with nothing but vague premonitions of an intangible future, even the most determined of his interrogators gave up. Estet's plans remained intact, after all, and with each team leader that reported success, more evidence was piled up, brick by brick, against his vision. A difference that makes no difference, is no difference, they said, and moved on to more pressing concerns.

 

 

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Left behind in the White Wing, that vague future change became his obsession, his worry stone. He memorized the futures around it, beyond it, behind it, growing familiar with the shape of it as the years passed, wearing smooth all the multifaceted possibilities. He grew older and more lanky, wrists and ankles sprouting from sleeves and cuffs; his body changing, his Sight stronger. The change also approached--closer but no clearer, the flickers of the future beyond it so tentative as to be nonexistent. He exhausted himself chasing after it night after night, falling back into the present each morning, limp and wrung with sweat as his body failed him. His frustration grew as the change moved closer in time; in a few short years, it would be there and gone, a possibility unrealized as it moved into a past forever locked to his Sight.

Outside the Wing, the world continued to move, and Estet with it. His voice had just begun to break, cracking and warbling between registers, when a certain small southeast Asian country collapsed under the weight of its own bubble economy. Within months the ripples of bankruptcy had spread outward to the pockets of allies and foreign investors, who fled like sheep before the spectre of collapsing currency. Estet teams--set in place for this moment--struck at carefully cultivated weaknesses to destabilize even the largest markets in Asia. The dominos began to fall, one country after another crashing into the throes of joblessness and economic depression, and once the rioting had begun in earnest, Estet moved its chess pieces and prepared to reap the rewards.

The operation, clean and logical in conception, proved to be far more complex in execution. Unseen variables conspired to mire and frustrate their objectives time after time, and team leaders, solo operatives, Estet strategists all came to the White Wing, one after the other, in order to control the ebb and flow of the chaos they had created. The memory of screaming still fresh in their minds , none of them were quite desperate enough to push the Elders' prizes too far. Even so, the constant use began to take its toll. By the end of the first month, one of the Oracles had collapsed from exhaustion, and an enforced sleep regimen had become necessary. By the second, the guards on kennel duty had already suppressed three developing stress disorders and reported signs of other, deeper problems. As the third month began, even their strongest Oracle was faltering...and desperate.

 

 

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In the beginning, he had merely been annoyed. The sudden influx of visitors was not unexpected, but it was unwelcome, and every time he lost control of his Sight to their mental grip meant another step backward in his own search. Then he grew angry--a slow, dully burning resentment at his own Talent that increased with each arrogant invasion of his tiny domain.

Now after three months, all that was left was despair. He no longer even moved from where they left him--on the bed, on the floor, in the corner--his mind fraying at the edges, chained together only by his jailers' power. To move, to speak, to be angry: it all took strength he no longer had, and any remnant of adolescent dignity had faded beneath the incessant demands for his Sight. Even sleeping and eating had to be forced as the future blurred into the present, and it was with the incurious gaze of a trapped animal that he watched his latest visitor enter the room.

The man was tall, towering over his smaller and lighter frame, and dark--a dark pinstripe suit fading into black hair and darkly tanned skin. His shoulders were stiff, his face angry; he had not liked having to wait for his answers. His eyes flickered around the room, assessing, and his mouth tightened in distaste. _//Pathetic.//_ Crouching, he grabbed the front of his chosen Oracle's shirt, lifting him into full view.

"Show me what I need to see, boy."

There was no escape from that demand, no way to struggle. The small white room darkened and spun away as the man's mind smashed his Sight open, locking his mind into familiar bonds. Atrocities flickered past in a welter of blades and gore and screaming faces--the man was a wetworks agent, and enjoyed his work. His Sight straining, he pushed through the gruesome possibilities, following them down further into the twisting paths of the future. His heart stuttered as his Talent took its toll, and in the depths of his mind, he wondered--_//Is this it? Is this how she felt before she died?//_

He stopped, frozen by a sudden, inescapable thought. It was deceptively simple, crystallizing between one heartbeat and the next.

An Oracle who Sees too much will die.

A telepath needs an Oracle to See.

If an Oracle forces a telepath to See too much...

...and he hesitated, fearing the outcome.

Into that moment slashed the telepath's furious impatience, uncaring of his tool's private thoughts.

_//Show me!// _

The order burned through his mind, impossible to disobey. So he obeyed.

In a spike of reckless fury, he opened his Sight wide, throwing away all his carefully-built barriers and ignoring instincts that screamed too far! too much!, trying to spur his retreat as a multitude of futures crashed down into their conjoined minds in all their four-dimensional fury. He heard screaming--he did not know whose--as he strained to encompass all the pathways of a life dedicated to inflicting pain. Possibilities flickered in and out of existence as they converged into one tsunami of sensory overload, death and birth and everything in between, forever and ever without end, until he felt something break under the onslaught and suddenly...

...he was alone. Alone. No one else in his mind, no telepath's goad spurring him on.

He stepped back from the edge, and the future receded, leaving behind one final vision that was, in its way, the most powerful he had ever had. One last glimpse of a choice so large that it affected all things--and then that elusive chance was upon him, in the here and the now. He stared at the man lying before him on the stained concrete, dropped out of his vision with jarring force. He had Seen death enough in the future; he knew what the boneless sprawl of the body on the floor meant, blood trickling from the nose, mouth slack and eyes staring. Dimly, he realized he should be afraid. Instead, looking down at the corpse, he found it pleased him.

He knew he would have exactly three and a half more seconds before they came for him. It only took him two to decide.

 

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He did not struggle when they came, locking down the Wing and swarming the room with dark-suited bodies. They slammed him against the wall, a gun to his temple. Estet's enforcers gave the body on the floor only cursory attention. Interrogating the dead was a clairvoyant's job; they would wring their answers from the living.

Beneath the fear, he took a perverse pleasure in the fact that he was now considered a threat.

Their highest-ranked interrogator took point. Stepping fastidiously around the corpse, the man grabbed his chin with a cold and calloused hand.

_//You know, boy, I really should thank you. It's not every day I'm allowed to take one of you bitches apart.//_ His mental voice was a snakelike rasp, dry and eager. His other hand rose, settling around the boy's throat, fingers flexing with anticipation.

His would-be victim smiled.

If anything, the second telepath broke even faster than the first, his single-minded focus shattered forever as he was dragged into an infinite plurality of futures. As he wrenched himself back to the present, the smell of his own sweat rank in his nostrils, he was mildly disappointed to find the interrogator still alive, clawing frantically at his eyes and screaming. One eyeball was already gone, adding to the mess on the floor, and in the end the man had to be dragged forcibly from the White Wing, howling in rabid fear.

They beat him into unconsciousness for that, fists thudding into spare flesh. Where the mind did not yield, the body would, they reasoned; and they were thorough in their duty. When he lay broken and bloody on the floor, they called in their superiors and tried again.

They lost two more interrogators in finding out that they were wrong.

No one had ever bothered to try to circumvent an Oracle's Sight before, and now Estet's best telepaths found themselves blocked by it, their errant Oracle's mind retreating instinctively to the edge of a precipice no telepath could follow. Those that tried, died--if they were lucky.

 

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He had made his choice, and the future had changed. He was not foolish enough to believe that it would be quick or easy.

It took a month of beatings, deprivation and drugs. A month's worth of blood, pain and filth, with one over-ambitious interrogator left dead and yet another left catatonic. When pain proved useless, its transitory nature ineffective against someone living a half-step out of the present, his tormentors turned to the brutality of traditional brainwashing techniques, albeit with hardly more success. He endured it all, waiting for the chance that he now knew would come--but only when Estet had exhausted all other options.

By the end of the month, his avoidance of telepathic invasion was almost an instinct, if a dangerous one...he could feel the foundations of his mind shiver under the impact of uncontrolled precognition every time he wielded it against intrusion. Despite the risk, he relished his newfound privacy, treasuring a Sight than answered to his own demands and no other. With a skill honed from years of confinement, he watched the changes ripple out into the future, twisting and touching all of Estet. He saw himself in those changes, still in white...but with gun in hand. Free of the Wing, but not of Estet. Not yet.

There were others in those shifting futures, faces without names or associations. A scowling redhead with the eyes of a fanatic. A white-haired man, interestingly scarred and covered in gore. An absurdly young and vacant-eyed girl, swallowed by shadows...an even younger boy with a pinched face and huge wary eyes. Another smirking redhead, who carried himself with the arrogance of a telepath--old familiar faces moving into new patterns, each shift opening up a new cascade of possibilities. Possibilities that would end in an instant, if he failed to navigate the waters ahead.

 

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They found him waiting just inside the door when the day came. He had two escorts: whipcord lean, deadly, and dressed in black. They didn't bother with manacles; they knew he had nowhere to run. He walked quietly between them, head bowed, his torn and dirty feet bare against the stone floors. What remained of his white clothing was ragged and filthy, and he stank. He was very picture of submission, broken and penitent; except for the one thing that they wanted. That was still safely locked away, hidden from any telepath. Even from the agents who paced him to either side like waiting shadows. Even from the Council.

Or so he hoped.

The way to the Council chambers--the public ones, at least--was long and winding, full of stairs and endless vaulted halls. Shadows lay heavily in corners, effectively concealing any watching eyes. It was meant to exhaust and demoralize petitioners and attackers alike. Those that waited ahead had nothing to fear from the dark.

His eyes had become accustomed to the dimness by the time they reached the heavy double doors at the end. He could feel his knees tremble, though he couldn't tell whether from fear or from the rapid pace set by his guards. It took an effort of will to keep his hands from twisting against each other, to have them hang loose at his sides. The dark carved doors swung silently open, and he squinted in pain at the flood of light, momentarily blinded even as he was shoved forward into the room. His feet registered warmth, the plushness of carpet; blinking furiously, he tried to recover his balance. The Council chambers were a far cry from the austere, forbidding hall of judgment he had once imagined. The carpet beneath his feet was deep, with rich designs his wondering eyes identified as Persian; the furniture was dark wood, with overstuffed chairs placed in casual groups next to polished tables. Marble tiling and cut crystal vases gleamed in the light spilling from tall windows, and a mammoth fireplace held a low-banked fire that kept the spacious rooms far too warm. The focus of the room, however, was not in the furnishings or the decor. It was in the people who sat comfortably next to the fire, watching his approach. They were old--they had always been old, for as long as he could remember--with lined faces and gnarled, cold hands. The mannerisms of the elderly hung on them like ill-fitting Halloween masks: the frumpy clothes, the slow movements and irritable complaints. It was a ruse that had fooled many in the past, leading them to assume weakness where there was none.

Looking at them now, relaxed and smiling in their chosen environment, he knew better than to make that same mistake. Wrinkles and liver-spotted skin did not disguise the razor-sharp brilliance of their minds, nor the detached, reptilian cool of their eyes. It did not matter who or what you were--to be brought before them was to know that your life was in their hands, dangling over the razor's edge between life and death. Estet's ruling Council was--and always would be--nothing but infinitely dangerous.

When they stopped at a respectful distance, the second Elder, with her smiling, grandmotherly face, beckoned them forward. "Come here, boy."

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he shivered. He didn't want to get any closer--even without being a telepath, he could feel the heaviness of the room like an oppressive reek, saturating every pore. But he was given no choice; one of his guards wrapped a telekinetic vise around his neck and shoved him forward, forcing him to approach the elderly trio. He pressed uselessly back against the pressure, feet dragging. The Elder smiled, yellowed teeth bared between dry lips.

"So reluctant, boy? I thought you wanted to see us." Her eyes raked him up and down, from blood-matted hair to bruised and dirty feet. "Perhaps you are just now realizing what the ending to this little game of yours will be?"

The first Elder, comfortably ensconced at the end of a sofa, looked up for the first time. "You have cost us a great deal, boy." He picked up a pipe, and lit it. The flames danced oddly over his fingers before he blew out the match. "Your willfulness will not be tolerated."

The third Elder picked up where the other had left off, voices overlapping to create an eerie harmonic. "Defiance has only one reward."

"Why am I here, then?" He couldn't believe at first that he had spoken--had dared to speak without permission. The thready cracked sound of his voice revealed the fear he couldn't hide. But he held on, determined...because there was something he had realized two days ago, watching this scene twist and change in the future. Something so simple that he'd almost missed it, and only now that he was here, in this moment, was he sure of it.

The Elders didn't know what he wanted. For all their power, they didn't *know* his reasons. They had not reached into his mind to pluck the information they needed, as they had in the past. They were no longer omniscient--and it was because of him.

He forced his way past the fear, ignoring the hammering of his heart. "Why aren't I dead?" It would be so easy for them to change their minds; at any moment he expected to feel his spine shattered, or his heart crushed in the grip of a telekinetic fist. "I know you could have given the order at any time."

"Yes." The agreement was mechanically flat. The third Elder looked at him for the first time. Weathered skin hung immobile over his expressionless face, creasing only enough to allow for speech. "It was decided that we should give you one last chance to resume your service to us."

He didn't bother with any threats. He didn't need to.

This was it. The turning point--life or death. It all depended on choosing the right words; picking out his answer well enough that he wouldn't be killed out of hand. The simple fact that he was here before them meant that he had run out of second chances; and despite his best efforts, he had found no future path that guaranteed his success. He had hedged his bets as well as he could, but there were too many ways this could turn awry. He took a deep breath. "I will continue to serve Estet, and use my Sight for you. But...I want to see the world. I want out." He stopped there, knowing that they would react, if not how. He resisted the temptation to offer up blandishments, or marshal arguments to his cause; the very concept of someone daring to bargain with them had enraged the Elders every time he had Seen it--with lethal results.

The three sat immobile and unblinking. The first Elder's voice dropped into the silence like stones. "You want out." The air thickened, coiled in on itself.

"Yes, sir." _Don't rush, don't rush_, he told himself. "I want out of the White Wing. I want to be an agent."

He had to remind himself to breathe as the silence stretched on. The heat made him dizzy, the air heavy and painful in his lungs. "Sooo..." The second Elder drew the word out into a sibilant hiss. "What an impudent songbird we have here--one that thinks he's a hawk. How amusing..." Her voice held no humor. "Arrogant pup. You dare demand your freedom from us?" the first Elder said evenly.

"No." He almost choked on the word, feeling the subtle pressure on his windpipe as invisible fingers flexed consideringly. "I am your servant. I will be until I die." His knees threatened to give out, spilling him to the floor--he locked them in place. "But I will be more valuable to you as a living agent then as a dead Oracle. I've Seen it."

It was the final, most powerful card he had left to play: that reminder of both his status and his ability. Only that had gotten him even this far; any other Talented would already be dead or mindwiped. And now that he had played it, no other argument would matter. All that was left...was the Council's decision.

He held his breath, waiting. Ignoring the guards behind, the windows to the outside, his entire being focused on the three old not-people before him. Willing them to make the choice he had Seen.

Then he collapsed to his knees as red spikes of pain flared inside his chest, wrapping themselves around his heart. His vision dimmed as he gasped, narrowing down to the Elders' amused faces as they watched him writhe like a crushed bug on the floor. He struggled vainly for air, knowing it was useless.

The Council had made their choice--and he had lost. He could feel their minds bearing down on his, threatening to split it open. His lungs spasmed as he gasped, trying to concentrate, to gather the tattered strands of the future, to escape. He didn't want to die. The urge to survive, to let them in to do what they wished was almost unbearable. But inside, something still raged.

_No! I will not live like this!_ His entire life had been spent waiting for this moment. He was not going to let it go now!

_Live as an agent, or die as an Oracle!_ There would be no third option--he refused to allow it. Gathering together every scrap of willpower left to him, he struggled to throw his Sight wide, to leave himself open to the future, even as his heart thundered in his ears. Better to leave them with a burnt out husk than to live as a nameless thing for the rest of his life.

With the last of his strength, he flung his Sight open--and the attack ceased.

 

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They were waiting, watchful eyes set in pleasant faces, as he came to, shuddering and curled into himself on their expensive carpet. The first Elder spoke without preamble.

"You will be given one chance."

He struggled to breathe, willing himself not to vomit as he took great, rib-straining gasps of air.

"You will be trained as an agent. No allowances will be made for your prior inexperience." The first Elder's voice rang with the dissonance of three-in-one, grating against his ears. "In a year, you will be sent into the field to prove your worth to Us."

Slowly, he began to understand what was said. He was alive. He was out. Against all odds, he faced down the Estet Council...and he had won.

"If at any time you fail, you will die." The Elders' words were final--in more ways than one. A wave of a withered hand, and the guards picked him up from the floor, dragging him away. He sagged weakly in their grip, head down, too exhausted to fight--

\--but with a small, feral smile curving up against a downcast face. He had won...and the future had changed once again.

 

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His first step out of the Wing was almost anticlimactic. More a stumble than a step, his feet faltering in the wake of his almost-death as he was dragged outside by his escorts. He could feel the blind eyes of the Wing's windows staring into his back as they crossed the cobblestones, and wondered what the other Oracles thought, still mewed away in the dark. There was no doubt that they had Seen him leave. But their freedom could not be his concern, not when he had suffered so much just to buy his own.

They went past a number of outbuildings, and then through a dizzying number of corridors and hallways, all made of the same somber grey stone. Hard stares followed their progress as others moved out of their way, muted speculations rising in their wake. They passed a cafeteria, then a hall with dim green-tinted windows. Once through an open doorway--one that lacked any door behind it--his escort stopped in the middle of a small room filled with ranks of narrow beds. One of them turned to him, ignoring the startled eyes of the room's inhabitants. "This is where you will stay during training. Your bed is there." He pointed. "The dorm master will be briefed. He will give you the regulations once, and only once. Disobedience will not be tolerated."

He nodded silently. He'd used up all his words on the Council, it seemed, for none would come to him now. The guards left, and he looked around at the room in which he would live for the next four years, unmoved by the unfriendly stares of the other trainees. It was plain, the cold, barracks-style room jarring after the opulence of the Council chambers. Still... he moved to a window and looked out, reveling in the ability to see something new with his own eyes. It had been worth it, every risk he had taken--including the ones he had yet to take.

Nothing had been given to him yet...but it would be. His future was clearer now than he had ever Seen it.


End file.
